


Wrap and Weft

by Iavalir



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Friendship, Gen, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 21:19:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iavalir/pseuds/Iavalir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is a dwarf doing in the Halls of Vairë?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrap and Weft

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Elleth with much love. I hope you enjoy this tale! As a small bonus, I also added a Doctor Who reference. :)

There was no one near her, none to embrace or speak with her, nor at least to welcome her. Dís thought it a curious thing, but she did not dwell on the matter. The vast hall before her reminded her of her youth, running around exploring every corner and what laid behind each door of dwarven halls. It was silly to have such an old desire aroused once more inside her, but Dís rationed that this was only an effect to expect when dead. She was free now to be anything she was, no longer hindered by time nor manners from her living years. She will remain here till Mahal called all the dwarves to rebuild Arda with Him. There was all the time in the world to be a child and adult whenever she wishes. 

But where was Mahal? Was she not to meet her Maker? Perhaps she should remain here and wait, but Dís was never one to sit around for long. Her body, feeling much younger than in the recent past, ached to explore; and it was not longer before she gave in to her wishes. 

She strolled through the halls, and finding them empty, could not resist running. There was wind against her face, and she chuckled at that. The afterlife felt so much like the world of living, but it was more. Not only did she feel younger, she was somehow more aware of everything as though her once living body had blocked her from the full experience. The sounds produced by her footsteps had a rhythm she never noticed before. The grooves in the stones weren’t just random squiggles but a sophisticated ancient language which she somehow could understand just by glancing at them. Had this all been in the living world but she had not seen them before, or was it the magic of this place? 

As a being who delighted in the workings of the world, Dís was finding the Halls more fascinating by the second. But in time the place lost its appeal. With no sign of another soul Dís was finding her situation unusual. This was not what the tales said, though she supposed now that no one ever truly knew what happened beyond life. 

“Perhaps this is my home, and I must furnish it,” she thought. The explanation made perfect sense to her, and she huffed and puffed our her chest, her hands on his hips. “Well. A little explanation would have been appreciated! Does Mandos despise us dwarves so much as to just leave us to figure things out on our own?”

It was settled then. She will take out any pillars she did not deem fit and build a fortress for herself. How she was to make the covers for sofas was to be figured out. The Halls were vast, and she had no doubt she would find the answer to her every question in time. 

She decided to travel deeper into the Hall in search of yarn. Perhaps she was expected to make a loom for herself, but she was up for the task. She was a craftswoman talented in many trades. With children to feed, herself, her husband, and her brother, she had aggressively mastered every craft in order to gather riches. Her family and she never slept hungry, and with that thought she strode through the Halls with her head held high. If Mandos was leaving her to her own devices and did not allow Mahal to meet His child, then she was not going to show a moment of weakness. 

Suddenly, a soft, muffled sound met her ears, and she stopped to listen. The sound continued, followed by the occasional tap of wood against wood. Taking a few steps, Dís located the sound and turned in that direction. She was led through several doors and corridors, and beyond a green arch doorway she stepped into a room completely covered in tapestry. 

She froze on the spot, taking in the grand designs of the work before her. Was she to take cloth from here for her own use? But she could not fathom taking this apart. The work was unlike anything in the world of the living, details and colors that were impossible to capture in anything she had ever seen in Erebor nor Dale. 

Dís studied the piece before her. It was just one tiny part of an incredibly long tapestry. On her left it seemed the length went on forever. The image depicted a scene, but she could not discern what scene this was. She turned left, and noted that the figures seemed to grow younger. She turned around and went the other direction. Some of the scenes were familiar to her, some depicting her people or figures she recognized from her youth. 

The hall from this direction also went on endlessly, but the tapestry tapered off after a point. A large loom stood in the middle of the hall, and upon the bench sat a tall being. Her long silvery hair swept the floor, and as she worked her eyes glowed silvery and pale lilac. The weft thread came from a basket by her side, but inching closer Dís could not see how much yarn was inside. She had a sudden feeling that the supply of yarn went on forever. 

The fascination of the tapestry punctured Dís’s earlier joy. She was enjoying the idea of having the Hall all to herself, and her disdain only grew upon noting the slight pointy tips of the lady’s ears. 

“Great,” she thought. “Wonderful. I am stuck in some point in the afterlife with an elf.” She had grown more open to elves over the course of her life, but she still would have preferred not to mingle with them for long. Especially not in any permanent arrangement. 

The lady halted her activity and turned to Dís with a shy smile. “Well met,” she said. “I have never met a dwarf before, though I have weaved many stories of your folk.” 

Dís caught her gaze staring at her beard and mustache, and she quickly moved her lips back and forth, letting her long mustache dance about. She always did it to intimidate others; in the rare event of non-dwarves seeing her and identifying her as a female dwarf, she always received rude comments about her appearance. She felt only pride over her body, preferring the beauty of her long hair over the laughable nakedness of her bullies, and she always let them know that. 

The elf blinked at Dís’s action in utter surprise, giggled, and leaned back. She lifted her hand to the scenery she was working on. “This is of your people. And here is you.” 

Dís stepped closer and paled at the sight. It was indeed her as she appeared last in her life, an elderly yet proud dwarf adorned in the jewels she would not get to keep in the afterlife. 

The elf was smiling, but there was no malice or mockery. Her pale eyes spoke of a long sadness and bittersweetness which drew Dís in despite herself. 

“Dís, at your service,” Dís said and bowed. 

The elf chuckled. “I’ve always wanted to see such a greeting myself,” she said. “I am Míriel Þerindë. At your service, little Lady.” 

“How do you know so much about us and yet haven’t seen anything for yourself?” 

“I am given visions to illustrate,” Míriel said. “All the tapestries you see here are depictions of Arda’s history, from every age and every part of the world. I leave nothing out.” 

“Nothing?” Dís asked, suddenly recalling some of the more private moments of her own life. 

It took a moment for Míriel to realize what Dís meant, and she laughed loudly when the realization hit her. “The important moments of our history, my dear.” 

“To a dwarf every moment is important,” Dís said. “But I am glad not everything about me is on here.” She glanced behind her to the seemingly infinite wall where the world’s entire history lay in interwoven threads speaking tales of love and war and victories. A chill came over her. “Do you ever tire?” 

“Not in this life,” Míriel said. “In this form we never have need for food nor sleep. Nor to turn away from images of doom.” The sadness crept into her eyes again. 

“Sounds like my kind of place,” Dís thought to herself. Her attention turned back to Míriel’s loom. Beside the illustration of herself there was another story being told in a completely different part of the tapestry. It was of an elf, her hair long and bright golden. One leg wrapped around the other which stood on tiptoe. Had it not been for the disc in her hand about to be tossed, Dís would have thought the elf was merely dancing. 

“A competition is being held in Valinor,” Míriel explained. “Here you see the champion.” 

Valinor. Oh, Dís has heard of the place all right. The elves seemed to speak of nothing else in the recent past, those who still lingered around after the War of the Ring was won. If the stories were true then Dís now resided in Valinor, though it was the Halls. She was not permitted to ever walk the undying lands. She didn’t think she would want to anyhow, imagining the place filled with trees and ever-sorrowful elves with not one smithy in sight. 

As Míriel returned to her work, the snap of wood hitting against wood filling the room once more, Dís continued studying the Valinor champion. She could not fathom having such long legs, which appeared they would snap under the pressure of the rest of the body. The dwarves have always found the other taller beings humorous, as though their bodies had been stretched too thin. But that thought soon passed Dís’s mind, replaced by the many questions she had for her new companion. Where was the yarn coming from? Who was giving her these visions? Why was she doing this when not one spirit was here to study them? 

“Is this champion someone important?” she asked instead. 

“To me she is,” Míriel replied without stopping. 

“What is her name then?” 

“Indis of the House of Imin and Iminyë.” 

“And what’s her relation to you?” 

Míriel paused. “A dear friend.” 

“Sibling? Childhood friend?” 

“We shared a husband, you could say.” 

“How is that possible,” Dís wanted to ask, but she decided to leave that topic alone. She noticed Míriel hadn’t touched Indis’s illustration and just kept working on the illustration celebrating Dís’s life and legacy (the theme of which Dís was certain by now.) She took a step back and studied the last scene of the tapestry, then worked her way backwards, keeping a sharp eye open for any reappearance of Indis. But Indis didn’t seem to be featured no matter how far back she went, leaving Dís to wonder what was so special of this one elf. 

She returned to Míriel in time to see that the scene celebrating her was completed. Míriel stood up and tugged on a thread at the top of the finished tapestry, and the cloth rose up. Dís’s eyes traced that thread to the finished portions of the tapestry. Míriel moved the thread this way and that, and the tapestry rose higher and higher until it was level with the others. Míriel stood up then, secured the cloth to the wall, then returned to her seat. 

“Will you work on Indis’s victory next?” 

Míriel turned to the unfinished piece and just smiled. Dís was becoming increasingly frustrated with the elf. A need to use her hands, to create something, was overwhelming. She had thought she would build a castle for herself here, but instead she found herself having to witness an elf hog the only loom with an endless amount of yarn. The part of her that was young and reckless wished to push Míriel aside and take over, but the more patient and mature part of her kept that desire abated. 

“Where does the yarn come from?” she asked. 

“Vairë,” Míriel said. “One of the Valarie. I work with her, and it is she who helps me have these visions. This is the Hall of Vairë.” 

“ Vairë,” Dís repeated, suddenly curious why the dwarves never knew of this Vala who also revered crafts. “Do you think it was Vairë who brought me here?” 

“Perhaps. The Valar move in strange ways.” A smiled crossed her face, and Dís could not understand why. She wanted to scream at the elf. They kept secrets. Dwarves were very secretive as well, but they were never as annoying with it as elves were. 

“For what purpose am I here then?” she wanted to demand. “And why does it amuse you? Out with it!” But she knew Míriel would never divulge the truth to her.

* * *

Though she had no way of telling time, Dís felt as though she spent many months in the Halls with Míriel. She mostly spent it dusting away any little dust she found on the tapestries and educating herself on the history of the people who roamed Arda well before she was ever born. She saw the illustrations of her people, of the attack on her homeland and its reclamation.

But there was little to do between watching Míriel work and surveying Arda’s history in pictures. She missed the company of her own people. She desired to see her sons again after studying the details of the Battle of Five Armies, and most of all she always wished she could be reunited with her mother who she loved most in this world. 

But Mahal, and perhaps Vairë as well, had some other plan for her. When it seemed like she would die (again) of boredom, Míriel called her to her side. Dís has been keeping eye on Míriel’s work. Indis the Victorious was finally completed some time ago, but it never joined the other depictions. Upon completing it Míriel rolled up the finished work and placed it in the hollow compartment under her bench. Soon afterwards, Míriel began a new project. 

“At your service,” Dís said when she reached Míriel. The elf had her sit on her bench and showed her how to work her loom. Too proud to be taught by an elf, and assumed a novice of the task, Dís moved ahead of Míriel. But what was she to weave? As Dís wondered this, a vision suddenly came to her mind, so vivid that she could almost smell the atmosphere around her. 

“So this is what they meant,” Dís thought. She had heard elves and humans alike speak of gaining inspiration before, a thought which amused dwarves. Inspiration came from inside, never out they believed. Dís and her childhood friends often made fun of that concept; one would pretend they were possessed by some divine light which rattled through their tiny bodies and emitted a masterpiece in seconds. 

In retrospect the games were cruel and ignorant of the other races, but they justified it by noting how often dwarves were harassed and ridiculed for their own appearances and skills. 

Dís soaked up the scenery, then moved her fingers over the wrap threads and began her work. She used the image in her mind as her starting point, but she could not help pouring her own vision. A dwarven craft was incomplete without the maker pouring their own heart and soul into the work. It was the act which they loved the most, bringing to life their visions. But to be mindful of Vairë’s vision Dís wove in the two. 

The loom was unlike any she ever used. No matter what color she needed, wrap and weft alike, that color the threads became. Her hands flew over the threads. Grinning, she was in her element, and everything else around her was lost. 

Míriel smiled when Dís was done. “This is impressive,” she said. “I almost forgot what joy there was in studying another’s craft.” 

“How long were you here?” Dís asked.

“I have been in this Hall since before the Sun and Moon first rose.” 

Dís nodded but said nothing. 

She was called back occasionally to work with Míriel, but when she wasn’t at the bench she roamed the hall. She traveled far until she was well away from Míriel’s sight, then she broke off at a run. She did not stop to study any image - there was time for that on her journey back. But she needed to see where it all started. It seemed like it took days. She was zipping past many thousands of years of great tales of every nation in Arda. It would be close to impossible to ever reach the very beginning. 

Just as Dís was about to give up, a sight made her halt in her tracks.

* * *

“You need to leave the Halls,” Dís told Míriel when she returned.

A couple more projects had been completed since Dís left her side. Míriel studied Dís for a moment before returning to her work. “I cannot do that. Someone has to weave the history.” 

“That’s why I am here,” Dís said. “You must have known it yourself, didn’t you?” 

Míriel nodded. 

“You’ve been wishing to see Indis since your fates have crossed paths.” 

Again, another nod, but Míriel was silent. 

“All those tapestries you’ve woven of Indis - it wasn’t for the grand story. It was for your own collection…or as a gift to give to her someday. You made many of them, more than what that compartment can technically fill.” 

“It’s bigger on the inside.” 

“I figured as much.” Dís grinned. 

Míriel sighed heavily as she leaned back. “She suffered much for my own decision.” 

“I know. I saw the entire story.” 

“She never left my thoughts,” Míriel said. “Throughout time my mind would go back to her, and I just had to paint her every joy, from her past and present. I always wished to give them to her one day, to remind her that there is so much light, so much good, in her life.” 

“And that is why Vairë had me brought in here,” Dís said. “Now, go! You were the first to enter the Halls, and I daresay you deserve a little vacation. I intend to continue your work while you are out of the Halls, but I have my own people to look for in the Halls. This is your only chance.” 

Míriel kissed her brow and retrieved the tapestries. Soon Dís was alone in the Hall, the lonely Hall where seldom anyone ventured. There were too many miseries woven in the threads, but there was also joy, if one took the time to study the work carefully. 

Dís closed her eyes and let herself be connected with the outer world once more. After a vision materialized before her, she set out to work, back in her element.


End file.
